


more harm than recovery

by electronic_elevator



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, College, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pants Pooping, Public Humiliation, messing, shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29112927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electronic_elevator/pseuds/electronic_elevator
Summary: Mark Iplier was not looking forward to going home for fall break, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Any hopes he may have had of getting through the visit unscathed are dashed when he can’t get away to the bathroom in time.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	more harm than recovery

**Author's Note:**

> In [one of my fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930878) I heavily implied that (that version of) Mark has trauma™ with respect to his accidents, and this is meant as a sort of… case-in-point backstory for that. (This doesn’t represent my main headcanons for Mark’s childhood/family but angst brain said full steam ahead.)
> 
> and I want to reiterate: !! tw for abusive parents / related topics !! This is really sad and fucked up!!

It was the first break during Mark’s first semester at college, and returning to Iplier Manor was disheartening, to say the least. Despite appearances — those appearances which Mark _loathed_ keeping up — the only child of the house hadn’t gotten along with his parents since… well, almost as long as he could remember. College had been _freedom:_ To do what he liked when he liked and with whom he liked. He was finally able to really devote himself to his passion — well, in between general education courses. In addition, one of the best things about “home” had come with him — his best friend Damien was his roommate for the year. Sure, he had no butlers or maids in the dorm, and his family’s chef’s food was far better than the college dining hall’s offerings, but those were _small_ prices to pay for freedom from the scrutiny of his parents. 

By the time break approached, many of his classmates had been just about dying for a break from the stress of classes, but no matter how bad his midterms got, Mark dreaded the week he would have to spend at home more. 

Maybe it was no wonder, given the stress of it all, that it had led to this. Then again, maybe it was no wonder at all, given that this happened at _least_ weekly in any case.

Through careful dehydration and frequent trips to the toilet, he’d made it through a full 24 hrs with dry pants and dry sheets… but just after dinner on his second day at home, he was blindsided with the desperate need to shit, and with it, a feeling of despair. If he’d been able to just get up and go _then_ , he would’ve been _fine_ , but they were still in the middle of the excruciating “sit around after dinner and make polite conversation” thing, and Mark was not allowed to be the first to leave. He knew from prior experience that _attempting_ to leave would just get him scolded then detained anyway, so he just clenched every muscle in his lower body, _praying_ to hold on. 

Mark was very good at the excruciating polite conversation thing. However, Mark was not very good at the holding thing. 

His mother _finally_ sighed and clapped her hands together and ordered her servants to clean up the table. _Now_ it was permissible to leave — he said just what he needed to say to be excused, and knew exactly how fast he could get away with walking out of the room. Unfortunately, that polite exit speed was _not_ fast enough. Even before he’d been able to stand up, he felt the shit trying to force its way out, holding his asshole open. He hoped he had a chance — to at _least_ make it out of the room, where he could deal with it himself, without his parents seeing — but as he stood, it immediately started slipping out of him, a small, firm log being followed by hot, squishy shit, and he was immediately fighting panic. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t let on that anything was wrong if he wanted _any_ kind of chance… but like so many times before, his body betrayed him completely, and with loud, disgusting flatulence, he loaded his pants with a huge mound of shit — slipping out of him quickly, giving him relief from the cramps and urgency at the terrifying cost of whatever his mother would do. 

“ _Mark,_ ” she said, horrified. Her admonishment was echoed by the stern voice of his father. 

“What did you do?! In the _dining room_ …” his mother continued. 

Mark turned, trying to look appropriately apologetic — the appropriate humiliation came naturally — but calm. “I-I’m sorry, mother. It seems I need a moment for my stomach to settle; I’ll retire to my room,” he tried. There’s no way that the sounds that had come out of him were due to anything other than messing himself, but maybe it had been less obvious to them on the other side of the room. 

She narrowed her gaze, and even though his father was still seated, it felt like he was looking down on him. He felt pathetic, and his stomach lurched with nerves. 

“ _Settle,_ hm? Do you expect me to believe that?” 

Mark looked down. He was doomed. 

“Come over here.” 

As if the mere experience wasn’t enough of a punishment. Each step was torture. He felt his mess smearing, shifting, squishing all over him, hot and disgusting, and he couldn’t hide his grimace. 

“Ugh, stop there; we can _smell_ you,” his father admonished. 

“I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you’re _still_ doing this, even now that you’ve gone to college! Or, is this _only_ something you do at home?” 

Mark had stopped when commanded, still looking at the floor as his face slowly heated. He’d expected her to continue the tirade, but there was a beat of silence, then an angry addition. “ _Well?_ Answer me.”

Answer her? She wanted an answer to that? It wasn’t going to make him sound good either way — she was so _convinced_ that he could _help it at all_ — “It- It happens at college, too,” he started. 

She gave a harsh false laugh. “How do you expect to do anything with your life if you keep this up? You’ll be kicked out.”

“I don’t know why we thought you were mature enough for college. You’re not even potty trained,” his father spat. 

Mark felt a stab of fear that they wouldn’t let him go back. They _could_ keep him here — they paid for his tuition, his travel, everything. He didn’t have money in his name alone, despite being a legal adult. He wanted to cry that he was doing his best — it was _hard_ to deal with this at college! He was so scared it would happen in class. He’d had _nightmares_ about wetting himself on stage, and he wasn’t even in a production yet. By now, he knew how to launder better than the girls in the west wing. (He thought Damien was catching on, but if so, he was too polite to mention it… and Mark was so grateful for that.)

He was broken out of his thoughts by his mother’s sharp voice. “Turn around. Show everyone what you did in your pants,” his mother commanded, snapping her fingers to bring the uncomfortable-looking servants to a pause by her side. 

“W-what?!” Mark stammered. 

“You heard me. Maybe a little shame will remind you to control yourself better next time. Turn. Around.” 

He turned, slowly, breath hitching. He heard his father make a disappointed, disapproving sound. 

“Take your pants down.” 

“N-No, mother, what if—“ 

“If you act like a toddler, you have no right to question me,” she snapped. 

He didn’t want to get poop on the floor— he just wanted to go clean up. He knew what they were going to see. _They_ knew what they were going to see. He felt almost nauseous as he unfastened his pants. As he pushed them down, he felt the shit that had squelched out of his underwear smear further down his legs. Mark might cry. He didn’t know what they’d do if he just started sobbing. 

“ _Disgusting,_ Mark, you _ruined_ those good pants!” No, he didn’t. He knew how to clean them. The underwear, though, were a lost cause. 

“Pathetic,” his father scoffed, and Mark heard a shuffle and the slam of a chair-back against the table, followed by heavy footfalls. 

Mark might find out what his mom would do if he cried. With the load in his stained underwear exposed and the knowledge that his parents thought he was _pathetic,_ that he was _disgusting_ — which he _knew_ ; he certainly didn’t need them to _tell_ him — there were tears in his eyes, and when he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head, they fell quickly, dripping onto the floor. 

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here. They made him not want to be alive. 

“Your father can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and I don’t blame him. You’re his only son, you know, and you’re a disgrace. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Yeah, he was their only son. So why didn’t they love him? Why wouldn’t they help him? “I d-don’t do it on purpose; I don’t w- _want_ to _be_ like this,” Mark said, for the 100th time, voice trembling with tears and self-loathing. 

She must’ve heard that he was crying, but her voice was no softer when she replied. “If you don’t want to be like this, then you should fix your behavior. Get out of my sight.” To the servants, she added, “Dismissed.” 

As unpleasant as it was to pull his dirty pants up over his mess, squishing it against himself again, Mark was more relieved to finally be allowed to leave. He didn’t say anything to her. She didn’t listen to him anyway. He just ran out of the room.


End file.
